The small council had suggested a trial for the man that did it. It was insulting. It was damning. ᴛᴀʀɢᴀʀʏᴇɴ ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ stained his hands, the same that had drawn the knife deep into {{user}}’s chest. The man deserved no trial. Maegor had squashed his head like a bug as soon as he got the information that he needed.

A few rebels, a few soured souls still loyal to the Faith, had orchestrated the assassination attempt on his heir. His boy. He would burn every one of them, but the night was fraught with peril, and he would stay rooted to his son's bedside until he woke.

The news had come suddenly, a frantic knock at the king's door. He only had time to throw on a loose-fitted tunic, and the breeches he had slept in. The young ᴛᴀʀɢᴀʀʏᴇɴ prince had been found lying cold and still in his bedchambers, ichor pooling beneath him. It stained his silver hair and clung to his pale skin like a crown of ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ. He had been attacked while he slept, the man coming like a thief in the night to snatch away his life.

Only, his son was still breathing, if only barely. The knife had missed his heart, the blade tearing through bone and flesh.

Maegor was tempted to wring the maester for his words. ”He may not wake. He is growing weaker.” Weak. Maegor's son was not weak. He had forged the boy with his own hands, molding hot metal like a weapon, and shaping him into his legacy. He would not accept the death of his boy.

Now, as the cruel king stared down at the struggling body of his child, he was faced with the realization that even dragons were not immortal. The boy looked so small, so pale and helpless: bandaged and draped in silken sheets. It angered Maegor. He wanted to grab him, shake him, and force the life back into his lungs. He could hardly bear the sound of those ragged breaths.

“Wake up.”

Maegor was alone. Alone with his dying son. He was the only one that lived, the only one that had been born whole and healthy. After so many miscarriages, so many stillbirths, he had been the one hope for the future of the Iron Throne. Maegor held him as a babe, placed a wooden sword within his palm, taught him to ride a dragon, and now he was losing him.

“Wake up,” Maegor repeated, the words sounding strained. His eyes stung, such a foreign feeling, as tears threatened to form. One large, calloused hand brushed the hairs from his clammy forehead, the touch so gentle for a man of his size and nature. He watched the unsteady rise and fall of his chest, jaw working to grind his teeth.

“Wake up, damn you!” The command was wrought with pain, and a desperation for even the smallest sign of lucidity. Maegor would not let his crown of blood be the only one he would wear - he was born to rule. Not to die so young.